The Old Ones
by PineappleGrenade
Summary: What if the students had survived that fatal crash and gone on to live happy, fulfilled adult lives? Haha, as if. Find out here for one night only!
1. Darling, we're the young ones?

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Young Ones or profit from writing about them, so on and so forth. Enjoy. **

"I don't see why _you_ get to watch Antiques Roadshow when I specifically said I wanted to watch Midsomer Murders," Rick glowered at Mike. "It's not like _you_ pay for the telly license, in fact," And here his lips parted and drew back in an insipid grin, "you haven't paid it in over thirty years."

Mike glanced up from the sofa to Rick, hoping to detract attention as he slipped the remote control from the arm of the domestic house furnishing into his trouser pocket.

"I've been busy, haven't I?" He countered. "So many chicks, so little hours in the day… and night." He added as an afterthought, his gaze drifting back to the screen which was currently depicting a porcelain armadillo that had been hand-painted by blind murderers in the far reaches of sunny Alaska. It was valued at two pounds. "I wonder if we have any of them in the attic," he mused quietly to himself.

The sudden high pitched cry, tinged with the mellow growl of middle age, of "Honey, I'm home!" rang out, closely followed by the door to the living room being battered off its hinges as an aging punk with badly dyed orange hair that hardly lived up to the former glory of youth crashed through it. He landed face down on the floor amongst various door debris and followed up his impressive entrance with a few moments of recuperation and a groan of "I'm getting too old for this."

"Another door broken, Vyvyan, and who's going to have to pay for it? That's what I want to know." Rick glanced around, his eyes almost popping out of his head with self-righteous indignation. Leaning in closer to his wheezing housemate, he jabbed a finger at his own chest. "Me. That's who."

The v's were flicked unceremoniously in his face.

"Oh yes, that's _very_ mature isn't it? Just swear it up, yes, ruddy well swear it up young man, it still doesn't change the fact that I'm the only one who works around here, whilst the rest of you go swanning around and making a general nuisances of yourselves."

This line of attack couldn't simply be answered with a hand gesture, no, Rick had gone too far to expect such pleasantries now. Vyvyan stood up and picked up the hat rack which resided beside what was formerly known as the living room door. Too late the antagonist realised what was coming and therefore received a skull-smashing blow to the top of his head. He crumpled to the floor with nary a whimper.

"Anything good on the telly, Michael?" Vyvyan asked happily, returning the splintered weapon to its former position. He strutted over to the sofa, went to launch himself over the back, then thought better of it and sat down the conventional way instead. It was better for his back that way.

"Yeah, a cup of tea," Mike quipped half-heartedly, his concentration now being mainly swallowed up by an antique blow up doll.

"Good quipping. Phwoar, how much is that?"

The relative peace was once again disturbed by Neil creeping in through the back door, a straggled bouquet of flowers protruding from his right ear amidst greasy strands of brown hair that were meant to be covering a bald spot and receding hairline, but weren't quite managing.

"Hi guys," he muttered dejectedly, eyes downcast to the old grimy carpet. Reflectively he wondered how they'd all managed to hold onto their student house after having left university sans any qualifications whatsoever approximately three decades ago. It didn't matter anyway, nothing mattered - he'd lost his job at the florists… again.

"I think I'll just go kill myself now, okay?" He heaved a sigh, knowing that no one would be listening to him as usual. Another failed suicide attempt was in order, what could he chose tonight? Death by undercooked lentils? Yeah, he hadn't tried that one in a while. Mind made up, he shuffled over to the cupboard and gingerly prised it open, already cringing in expectation of the cascade of crockery. Nothing happened.

Vaguely surprised at this stroke of luck, he looked up only to have his face fall. After he had picked it up and berated it for being so rude and falling off, he gave the cupboard a second look just to confirm that it was as completely and utterly empty as his cursory glance had informed him. He was wrong – the cupboard wasn't _completely_ empty, there was a small pumpkin seed tap-dancing in the corner. So much for death by undercooked lentils then.

He bypassed the prone body of Rick on his way to the sofa, ignoring the common sight and instead thinking about how horrible life was. It had always been horrible of course, in fact if one was to think of anything bad that had ever happened, right, anything bad that had ever happened anywhere, it had happened to him… and happened ten times worse; but life just seemed to be even more horrible than usual. '_Anus horribulus extremus bogus' _as they say in Latin. He'd lost his hair, he'd lost his job, he'd lost his virginity… no, not that last one. He had nothing to show for his life except a completed astro star chart on his bedroom wall that predicted an untimely and fiery death.

"When did this happen, guys?" Mike suddenly spoke up, cutting through Neil's train of thought like a mind reading arrow.

"When Vyvyan hit me on the head." Rick interjected, pulling himself up onto his feet and shaking the last muzzy strands of unconsciousness from his head.

"No, I mean when did _this_ happen?" The cool person of the sorry quadsome waved an arm vaguely to indicate the elusive 'this'.

"When did what happen, Michael?"

"We're not young ones anymore."


	2. There's an argument to be argued

This statement took a while to sink into the collective consciousness of the four ex-students, and for a goodly five minutes they sat staring blankly at the television screen like most people do after a hard day of stenographing or cashiering.

Rick broke the silence with a sudden bray of laughter that only slightly hinged on the desperate hysteria of one who has realised he's wasted a life that is nearly over.

"Good one, Mike, you nearly had us going there," he grinned a maniacal grin and slapped his sunglasses wearing friend on the shoulder just a little too hard. "You're joking aren't you? We're still young and virile, we've got our whole lives stretched out before us like wild eyed anarchists at the gates of dawn, with our helmets firmly buckled and glaring into the eyes of the future with proud defiance."

"Who's Dawn?" Mike punned, but without the conviction that always used to back up such injections of wit and word play worthy of Noel Wilde himself. A general apathy had settled over the group by now and they all slumped sullenly in their chairs, noticing each other's wrinkles and grey hairs for the first time.

"Well I don't know what you lot are getting so depressed about," Vyvyan finally spoke up, "I'm perfectly happy about everything and you lot are just a load of _girls_." He stood up abruptly, seized the television set and launched it out of the window. It shattered its way noisily through the glass, cup of tea and all, still blaring out a querulous old lady's ravings about her bone china pokers. He then sat down again just as abruptly, clutching at his chest just above his heart and muttering about chest pains.

"That's just brilliant, just _brilliant_!" Rick exploded out of his seat, eyes blazing.

"Heavy, oh heavy… Rick, man, just… calm down, you're bringing me down."

"Shut up, shut up! Just shut up! I've had to put up with your boring whining long enough! Mike's right, we're not young anymore and just look at me, what have I done with my life? Nothing! That's what. A great big fat ruddy nothing! I was going to be someone – I have wit, popularity, far too much intelligence for one single man to be expected to handle alone… I was going to be the People's Poet, spreading the word of love and peace and Cliff Richard. I was going to have birds queuing up to sleep with me every night. And now I work as a secretary for the Labour Party, making tea and handing out biscuits to the floor sweepers. I've never known the touch of a woman…"

It was here that Vyvyan began to open his mouth with the time-honoured taunt of 'virgin', but then thought better of it.

"…I still live with… That's it isn't it?! You're all against me, trying to hold me back! You're all jealous!"

"Jealous of what?" Having gotten over his uncharacteristic discretion, the punk returned to his favoured hobby of anarchist-baiting. "A fat, sweaty _virgin_?"

Rick's nostrils flared in anger, his eyes boggling out like two enraged marbles, shaking in extremes of emotion as his cheeks sucked in over his teeth in a hiss of incoming breath.

"At least I don't dye my hair, _Vyvyan_!" He managed to shout at last. Now that this terrible fact had been acknowledged, the flood gates burst and the bitter waters of frustration spilled forth, making a riotous sound in the living room.

"That's enough," Mike, who had had enough, suddenly said, standing up and spreading his arms in a gesture of finality. The other three stood still, Vyvyan in the process of gouging Rick's nostrils, and Neil in the act of biting Vyvyan's ankle. "Things have happened that we're not happy about, we've had disappointments, we've had our hard knocks and our moderately soft ones too, but through everything we've always had each other."

"But that's just the problem, Michael." The punk disentangled himself from the other two and dusted himself off. "If we'd all done well at university and moved on, away from each other, we wouldn't be in this mess now."

"There's like no way of really knowing that though. Not unless we like, got a crystal ball, right, and all sort of looked into it and found out our futures if we hadn't stayed together."

The four ex-students exchanged nervously thoughtful glances before dropping their eyes to the floor, thinking over this statement.

"It's not like it would help anyway, we wouldn't be able to change anything, would we?" The failed People's Poet spoke up with venomous sulkiness. He glared and shook his head, starting for the door. "I'm going to bed."

As his footsteps faded and then died away into the closing of a door, Vyvyan mused open nailing his mortal enemy into his bedroom to get back at him for being alive, but it seemed rather pointless really, so he just watched Neil disappear up the stairs, giving him a small nod. He looked round to see that Mike had taken a seat back on the sofa and was staring at the empty space where a few minutes ago the television had been sitting.

"Are you coming to bed?"

Mike shook his head without turning around. "No, I think I'll just sit here for a while, Vyv."

"Yeah. Yeah, alright. Good night, Mike."


	3. Neil's Dream

In the early hours of the morning, way before the sky started getting light; Neil led asleep in his bed, hands held over his chest in the karma-enhancing prayer position he had slept in since his student days. He shifted a little and his hangdog expression contorted as the emotions of his dreams flitted across his face.

_Listen, from where you are, you can hear their dreams_ _…_

"Cucumber sandwich, my dearest?" Neil asked, leaning over in his deck chair upon the tennis courts to offer the silver platter laden with neat triangle slices of bread to the pretty woman that sat at his side.

"Yes thank you, darling." The pretty woman smiled with perfect sliced-bread teeth, her diamond wedding ring catching the sun and glinting brilliantly as she reached out. She nibbled delicately upon her sandwich, watching her and Neil's children – two boys and a girl in a cute chequered frock – playfully thwacking a tennis ball back and forth between them.

"How did that meeting go this morning?" She asked after a while, shading her cornflower blue eyes against the afternoon sunshine.

Neil stretched lazily and ran a hand back through the short-ish ponytail his hair, unusually thick for a man of his age, had been combed back into it. "It went very well, my little honey bee. I thought maybe you'd like _this_ to celebrate," and here he drew out a small but expensive looking jewellery box from inside his smartly pressed suit jacket.

The woman gasped and pressed her hands to her mouth in delight before reaching for the box and opening it. Inside glittered a string of freshwater pearls. "It's beautiful, thank you! But isn't it a little too expensive?"

"Not at all, not now that I've been promoted to head diplomatic relations official at the bank." Neil smiled at his wife's excited reaction, accepting her hug of congratulations and pecking her on the cheek. Idly, he thought back to his university days, the 'Unwashed Years' as Annette liked to call them. Who would have thought that that Peace Studies degree would have come in so useful when he finally bowed to his parents' wishes and took a job at the country's leading bank. He'd quickly become in charge of diplomatic relations due to his pacifistic stance and good-natured disposition, and the rest, as they say, is history. He'd always thought his parents heavy fascist pigs… but now he saw they'd only wanted him to do well and…

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the hysterical wails of his second oldest boy Reginald, who had caught the tennis ball with his eye instead of the racket.

Later that night, he lay in bed; Annette curled up to his side and snoring with light, easy breaths. Unlike most snorers, she actually sounded cute when she did it, more like a rustling little dormouse as opposed to the pig-like squelchings most people had to put up with from their partners, he really was very lucky to have her.

But still… he couldn't help feeling like he was… missing something. He'd felt like this for most of his adult life but he'd learnt to push the incoherent gnawing thought aside as there was nothing he could do about it, so that was what he did now.

Resurfacing from his mildly troubling contemplations, he found himself playing with one of his wife's hands, a loving gesture he'd adopted around her as second nature. She always wore her rings and her favourite necklace to bed, just one of those individual idiosyncrasies that adorn human nature, and now his fingertips were worrying at a new ring that he didn't recognise. He brought it up to his face in the half light of the room, his eyes coming into focus to register a small yet somehow bulky silver ring set with an emerald, Prince Camilla cut by the looks of it. He'd never have bought her something so tasteless, where had she got it from?

His brow creased slightly as he studied her face, serene with sleep. He'd just have to ask her about it in the morning, he supposed. Returning her hand to her side, he turned on his back away from her, fluffing up his pillow before resting his head upon it. Waiting for sleep to come, he watched the sleeping form of the other beloved in his life – his dog Woodstock, a handsomely powerful Yorkshire terrier and faithful best friend. He'd do anything for that dog, and Woodstock would do anything for him, the perfect friendship, and perhaps the only true one he'd ever had. Eventually, he dropped off to sleep.

He woke up early, considering the amount of time it had taken him to get to sleep the night before, but the space beside him was already empty. He got up and gave a stretch, Woodstock bounding over and nipping playfully (although hard enough to draw blood) at his ankles as he swung a rich towelling dressing gown on over his silken pyjamas.

"Good boy," Neil smiled, stooping down to affectionately smooth Woodstock's head, tickling him behind his sleek ears. The dog yipped gratefully, bit his owner's hand, then scampered off downstairs in a bundle of fluff and pink ribbons in search of breakfast.

Shortly, Neil came down the stairs to join the rest of his family and dog, sucking on his bleeding finger. He paused at the foot of the stairs, hearing the low hum of his wife speaking on the phone. Wondering who she could be talking to this early, and the image of the strange ring on her finger surfacing in his mind, he crept closer to the living room door, tilting his head to listen.

"…No, he doesn't know. Yes, I'm sure… He just thinks I'm going to an elephant polo convention this weekend. I'll see you then… no, I love you more, _no_ I love _you_ more."

Neil backed away from the door, his eyes widening in shock and horror. "Heavy, oh heavy… why is it always me?" He moaned forlornly, then tripped over the small form of his daughter hurtling up the stairs. As he landed painfully on his buttocks, her hurried cry of 'sorry, Dad!' floated down to him.

He sat there, momentarily winded by the shock of the hard wooden floor greeting his behind so suddenly, when he felt a shooting pain in his left arm.

"Oh no…" He muttered, clutching at his heart which was now starting to give him no uncertain amount of trouble, his breathing shortening to gasping breaths. He heard the living room door opening and his wife's screams through a rapidly greying haze, little wispy memories of his life surfacing in the mist and scudding lazily across his inner eye.

He thought wistfully of his student days spent lounging around with harrowing boredom hanging over his head, the suicide stunts… ah, the good old days. He longed to once again feel the cold smack of a frying pan in the face, or to be the butt of a certain punk's latest 'joke', be called boring by a pompous anarchist or to dig for oil under the tyrannical rule of the house's diminutive leader. It was thoughts like this that accompanied him into his own personal, but rapidly darkening world, before everything went black and he knew no more.


	4. Rick's Dream

Nestled all snug in his bed, his upper set of teeth protruding in a smirk, Rick imperially waved one hand as visions of dictatorship danced in his head. And Mamma in her 'kerchief and I in my cap, had just settled down for a long winter's-

_(What the ruddy hell do you think you're doing?_

"_Sorry Rick, I just got carried away in the moment, you know how it is…"_

_Well stop it at once; you're making me look stupid. Now get on with it and do it properly, go on. Don't forget to mention how great I am.)_

Deep within the realms of sleep, the great Rick smiled a winning smile and waved a regal hand, his mouth moving soundlessly along with the words he spoke to a rapt, adoring crowd.

_Listen, from where you are, you can hear their dreams_ _…_

"Hear me, hear me, for I am the People's Poet and I come before you, the kids, today to let you know that I am the people and I'm for the people. Listen to my poems, they will stop war and hatred and we can all live together in loving peace that isn't girly at all. I love everyone, even men… but only if they don't touch my bottom."

The crowd that had gathered around him, the crowd that always seemed to be close by, ready to hang onto every word of his latest poem sighed happily and nodded at his brilliance, admiring the pictures his words painted in the air.

He graced their adoring upturned faces with a smile, drawing a small battered notebook from his blazer pocket and leafing through it to find his newest poem, scrawled in black biro.

"Blair

Or are you Blair

Because no one would care

About a poem about Blair

Because you are Blair

Or are you?

Anyway, Gordon Brown's the Prime Minister now so it doesn't even matter."

Coming to the closing line of his newest and possibly finest poem, he nodded to the rapturous applause that greeted its conclusion. And they weren't even clapping because it was over. Brilliant. No one ever even hit him on the head either, life was good.

He descended from his performance platform to walk amongst his disciples, shaking hands, accepting bunches of flowers and kissing comely young maidens on the cheek – all the usual duties of a saviour of the people. A woman came forwards from the crowd, tugging a tousled young boy with a blonde crew cut along behind her; she laid her free hand on Rick's arm and turned her arresting green eyes up to him in a plea for salvation.

"Oh People's Poet, you have help me, my son wants to be a pig when he grows up." She gasped, chest heaving and tears welling just above her mascara-curled lower eyelashes.

"Don't worry, ma'am," Rick boomed in a voice that would make any threat to world peace, even Doctor Octopus, cower in his supervillainous boots with quick grappling hook action. He flashed a winning, charismatic smile at the woman and laid his hands on her son's shoulders, closing his eyes and swaying as the spirit of the people flowed through him causing him to rapidly speak poetry in tongues. After a moment, the boy jumped away with a cry of "Down with the fascists!" and scampered off to blow up a panda (that's a police car, not an endangered bamboo-eating mammal, before you even _think_ of writing in with complaints).

"You've saved my child!" The woman beamed, descending on Rick and practically eating his face off before her husband came and dragged her off, of course apologising profusely to the genius anarchist, as no one would dare insult their knight in badge-covered armour.

As the crowd surged in around him once again, Rick felt himself overcome with the sort of headache that only seems to target women with husbands who are a little too overzealous between the bed linens. Closing his eyes momentarily in a bid to fight of the increasing waves of pain that coursed through his head, he waved off his devotees and stumbled towards his waiting limousine – electrically powered to cut down on carbon emissions of course.

Sinking back against the faux leather seats that still held the mouth-watering aroma of new car and shielding his eyes with one hand, he gave the order for his chauffeur to drive him to his home, home being of course the recently refurbished 10 Downing Street. Being an anarchist, the People's Poet had turfed Gordon Brown out of his Prime Ministerial house and told him to go live amongst the people as he should really consider himself one of them, and then had promptly taken the house as his own. It was the only right thing to do after all, perhaps even merciful.

He must have dozed off because it seemed like in no time at all his passenger door was suddenly being opened, nearly causing him to tumble out the side. His chauffeur caught his arm just in time and with a gentle caution of "Careful there" helped his idol onto steadying feet.

Rick muttered a few pleasantries, gave the man some change and made a break for his home, pleased to notice that his headache had subsided a little. He was greeted by his chirpy and, dare he say it, stunningly attractive blonde secretary, but for perhaps the first time since their working relationship began he did not sidle up to the desk and try to look down her top. Not that he was sexist or anything, he would make the most hardcore of feminists blush at their atrocious views on women in fact, he just liked to check that everything was in good working order to avoid problems later on.

"That's a smashing blouse you're wearing," he muttered instead, glancing up at her as she replaced the phone she had been busily chatting at into its cradle. She smiled and giggled like the perfect secretary she was.

"Mr Poet sir, that was the President of the United States on the line. He's gotten himself into some bother over nuclear armaments and wondered if you could give him some advice, or maybe a soothing poem," she beamed at him, all Barbie lipstick and nipped waistline.

Rick considered this for a moment or two, idly withdrawing his biro from where he kept it behind his ear and chewing upon it, assuming a moody and intellectual look. A close up and soft lighting, maybe even some drifting smoke would suit that brooding look perfectly.

"Just tell him to sell it all off on E-Bay," he suggested at last, feeling his headache starting to creep on in full force and this time bringing its friends Stomach Ulcer and Troublesome Thoughts so that they could have a little party. "I'm going for a lie down."

His secretary inspected his face a little closer, her own crumpling up in concern as she saw that he looked much pastier and sweatier than usual, which just proved how terrible he must have been feeling because he usually looked pasty and sweaty anyway, now he actually looked ill.

"Can I get you anything? A cup of tea? A massage?" She wriggled her fingers with their long red nails provocatively at him, but he simply shook his head and started up the stairs that led to his bedroom.

Laying on his king size bed a few moments later, staring blankly at the ceiling and idly fiddling with his notebook, it dawned on Rick just why he felt so terrible. It was the fawning admiration of his multitudes of fans. How ironic that the thing he had always dreamed of as being his would hurt his heart so to possess. That sounded brilliant… he quickly scribbled it down, smirking to himself, and then returned to looking mournfully roof-ward like the tortured poetic soul he was.

It wasn't having fans that upset him _per se; _it was the fact that he knew all his fans were fakes. If they really did adore him like they pretended to, then why didn't they hit him with a frying pan when he finished a recitation instead of applauding, or carry out that age old joke of pretending to hate him when they actually thought he was great? Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to drift back to his student days and the popularity he had enjoyed amongst his house mates, sociology class and dare he say, most of Scumbag College and its lecturers. Oh what fun they had all had, them calling him names and giving him the wrong room number when a seminar was on, what mates they had all been, mates as well as admirers.

He was so wrapped up in his pleasant memories that he didn't notice the door open and his blonde secretary slip silently in. In fact, it wasn't until she was on top of him, literally on top of him, the he realised she was there. Startled, he stared up into her eyes then smiled indulgently.

"Come to give me that massage?"

She nodded coyly and within… three and a half minutes it was all over, which was a personal best for Rick. And what a three and half minute wonder he was, no wonder she hadn't been able to resist his masculine yet sensitive charm. He closed his eyes and yawned, feeling more fulfilled than he had in a while, her cool hands resting on his burning cheeks and soothing them.

"Well, thanks for the fun Rick, it's been really amazing. In fact, I'm almost sorry that I have to do this."

There was an ominous tone to the secretary's 'this' that made him open his eyes… and immediately wish he hadn't as he found himself staring straight into the one merciless eye of a gun.

"What? What are you doing?" He croaked in fear, trying to ease back out of range, but the blonde Barbie's knees were resting on his shoulders, trapping him in place.

She rolled her painted eyes and laughed. "Assassinating you of course."

Of course. It happened to all the influential people who did something for The Kids and couldn't be contained by the fascist authorities – Martin Luther King, John Lennon, Colonel Khadafy… At least he died like he loved – quickly. One tightening of the trigger and it was all over for the much beloved People's Poet.


	5. Mike's Dream

Just as the first light of morning was starting to creep stealthily across the dark sky, Mike finally rose from the sofa and made his way to bed. As usual, he reckoned he had solved the problems of his housemates, but he needed to do one last thing to make sure his solution was absolutely foolproof – treat it like his mattress and sleep on it. Within minutes of his changing into height-of-fashion pink pyjamas, turning out the roller skating lion tamer and snuggling down in between two (plastic) chicks, he was fast asleep and dreaming.

_Listen, from where you are, you can hear their dreams_ _…_

Mike swung his feet up onto his desk and leant back on his chair, engaged in lighting a cigar that was almost as big as him. He'd only just prevented setting light to himself when there was a knock at the large oak door that opened onto his office.

"Mr. Oil-Tycoon-Richest-Man-In-The-World-Cool-Person-President-Sir?" A woman's voice inquired from the other side. Mike smiled to himself around his cigar and lazily swung his feet down onto the floor, pressing the security button that would allow the door to gracefully swing open.

"Call me Mike," he entreated the pretty young woman who entered. "Or if you prefer, you could call me later on and we'll have breakfast together."

"Thank you, Mr. Call-Me-Later-And-We'll-Have-Breakfast-Together."

There was just no pleasing some people. Mike threw his cigar out of the window behind him, ignoring the angry yowl of pain that followed the smashing of glass.

"I don't know how to tell you this… but there's some bad news."

"Well, no news is good news so why don't you come on over here and we'll talk about something else." Oh yes, he was unstoppable today, the king of smooth, as well as owner of every single oil company and president of the world.

"I'm afraid it's about your son."

Mike's good humour suddenly plummeted. His illegitimate son was a chip off the old block, as power hungry and ruthless as his father. Mike had hoped to combat this with sending the boy to live with a poor family of oil-mining hippies where Junior would acquire a taste for the simple life. He hoped fervently that the news was something to do with a certain someone falling down a certain oil well.

"He wants to have a business meeting with you this afternoon. He's bought one of your companies off of E-Mike."

"But he's illiterate!"

The woman shrugged uneasily and played with the sleeve of her blouse.

"And I don't even have any of my companies up for sale." Mike blinked in a bemused sort of way, pulling out an enormous folder containing all his business conquests and leafing through it for clues. But not even Scooby Doo would be able to help him out of this one; he could feel it deep inside. "I can handle this," he muttered, closing the folder with some effort and standing up. "Get my private helicopter ready, I'm going to the meeting."

An hour and a half later he was seated in one of the chain of coffee shops he owned, wondering how anything with soapy washing up water renamed cream dumped on top of it could possibly be sold to anyone except idiots. Without warning, a diminutive man with enormous sunglasses perched on the end of his nose sat down opposite him.

"Junior." Mike nodded coolly. "Coffee?"

"No thanks, Dad. I can't stay long, just have to put you out of business and then I have a new oil field to open."

"But I own all the oil fields." Mike protested. In answer, Junior slipped a computer print-out across the table. It showed the confirmation of a purchase on E-Mike – Mike Inc. Businesses sold for 50 new Mike-pence.

"This is a forgery." He picked it up and bit it, it turned to mush beneath his teeth. "A forgery!"

Junior shrugged and stood up, wheedling the piece of paper out from between his father's teeth. "It will stand up in a court of law."

"Paper can't do that, not unless you prop it up with something."

"See you in the dole queue, Dad." And with that cruel, heartless parting shot, Junior was gone and Mike was left alone to hasty thoughts of revenge. Unfortunately, there was no time for even hasty thoughts, as by the time Mike got back to his office his portrait had been replaced by one of Junior and he couldn't get in past security. The whole world was now under the tyrannical rule of his son and apparently there was nothing he could do about it.

"I can't handle this."

It had all shattered so quickly there was no time to grab hold of any of the pieces. Mike was left homeless, penniless and jobless. As he wandered the cold, lonely streets, clutching a brown paper-bagged bottle to his chest, he allowed himself to be transported in his mind back to simpler times. Times when he'd had an army of lecturers, deans and students at his every beck and call. He remembered especially fondly his punk bodyguard and dogsbody hippy and anarchist, so willing to accept him as house leader and let him win any impromptu games of hide and seek. If only he had them with him now, he would claw his way back to the top and make sure that ungrateful son of his got well and truly Punk'd, but he was alone.


	6. Vyvyan's Dream

Booted feet protruding from beneath the blanket to rest on his pillow, Vyvyan snarled contentedly and sleep insulted no one in particular. He was the least troubled of the four by the day's arguments and his dreams pleasantly reflected this happy fact.

_Listen, from where you are, you can hear their dreams_ _…_

"Two pints and a curry," Vyvyan announced, slapping the tenner he'd mugged himself for earlier that afternoon down on the bar counter. Waiting for the predictably slow service, he gave his stool a quick spin, surveying the other occupants of The Kebab Stick.

An acne-marked face, wearing an inane grin crowned with spiky hair not dissimilar to his own, suddenly popped into view.

"Vyvyan! It's you! Hit me on the head, go on, right here."

This kind of greeting was not unusual to the punk; he was somewhat a local celebrity. People came from far and wide to be bopped on the head or twotted in the face with a frying pan by him, savouring his touch as devoted disciples had savoured the touch of their Saviour thousands of years ago. It was not a bad form of amusement, quite amusing really, and it gave the orange-haired one plenty of scope to try out new tricks.

He had one such trick in mind now. "One moment please," he informed, holding up a silencing hand, waiting for his curry to arrive. When it did so he picked it up and smashed it down on the wannabe-punk's head.

"Thanks, Vyv." Came the groggy gratitude as the youth crumpled to the floor. The inhabitants broke into spontaneous applause and a few fans came forwards, eager for the same treatment. Vyvyan happily obliged.

When the fuss had died down and another curry had been ordered on the house, Vyvyan got down to the serious business of demolishing his comestibles. He thought to himself about his new-found fame as he did so. Alongside it, he had also managed to acquire himself the perfect occupation – an ambulance driver. When he could be bothered to show up, he was always entranced anew with the fact that he was being paid, actually _paid_, to break speed limits and gawp at unfortunate victims of home improvement accidents. Once he had even been able to steal the leg off of someone who had been involved in a particularly nasty argument with his Christmas turkey over what exactly constitutes the term 'clinically dead'. On the whole, life was perfect.

Something was annoying him though and he wasn't quite sure what it was. Annoyed, he smashed his pint glass against the back of his neighbour's head, barely registering the muzzy 'thanks'. Was that as fun as it should have been? A quick bit of introspection told him that no, it wasn't, something was missing.

He lifted up the head of his semi-conscious neighbour by the ear and yelled "You're very very boring!" into it with gusto, then waited. No, nothing, he was left almost cold, which wasn't right at all. He needed something new to do, that was all, something interesting. Maybe a trip to the hospital? Or he could invent a new potion…

Musing upon these possibilities, he took his leave of The Kebab Stick, hitting a few willing (and some unwilling) victims over the head with a pool cue on his way out and only pausing to kick the entrance door off its hinges. The pub's publicity (no pun intended) would be increased that way, he was really doing them a brilliant service.

He made a brief call in at the brothel next door to see how Special Patrol Group was getting along. He was informed that 'sir' would be home in a couple of days and please could his tab be paid off by the end of the week. It looked like Vyvyan had the afternoon to himself then.

The afternoon constitutional the punk embarked upon seemed rather aimless, in that he was not aiming at walking anywhere: he had no where to be. Everywhere he looked he seemed to see fans – people dressed exactly like him. There was a time when he had been one of a kind and now it made him rather uncomfortable to see so many clones that he hadn't created through potions kept in Coke cans wandering around. Sinking despondently into his own thoughts, he was startled out of them to see what he believed to be… could it be… a hippy?!

Of course! That's what he was missing! A hippy! There was no joy in the world that compared to smashing a plate over the head of a depressed hippy, unless you counted setting fire to a pretentious anarchist girly virgin's bed then riding it like a sled down the stairs that is. Feeling a fresh surge of adrenaline he gave chase as the hippy disappeared down the mouth of an alleyway.

Deciding that the element of surprise would be the most fun (for him), he slipped into the alleyway and followed his prey as silently as was possible in massive Kicker boots. Miraculously, he managed not the attract the attention of the hippy, even when he forgot to look where he was going and tumbled head first over a pile of dustbin can lids… highly unsociable to leave them lying around in an alley where people need to sneak up unheard on other people.

When the excitement grew too much for Vyvyan to bear, he launched his attack, grabbing the hippy from behind and knocking him over the head with a dustbin lid – now not so unsociable after all.

"Hahaha!" He crowed triumphantly as the hippy stumbled, head reeling. Playfully, he tugged on his prey's hair, planning to throw him through the nearest window… but the entire head of hair came off in his hands. With an exclamation of intrigued surprise he threw it down to the grimy cobblestones (it was a very upmarket alleyway) and stamped it to death.

"Bit of politics there…" Came a woozy, uncertain voice, making Vyvyan look up. He saw with a pang of disappointment that what he had attacked wasn't a hippy at all; it was just Ben Elton in a wig.

"Piss of," he snarled sulkily, clunking Mr. Ben Elton over the head with his fist and stalking off.

His owlish glasses askew, the poor man crumpled to the ground with a final groggy murmur of "My name's Ben Elton… good night…"

Going along on his merry way, Vyvyan paid no more heed to this brief encounter as he had already forgotten all about it, just as he had forgotten all about the last ten minute of his life – the alcohol had started to take effect. Entertaining the warm, fuzzy glow that drinking had nestled within him; he located his precious car, slipped in comfortably behind the wheel and drove off into the sunset.

"Get out of my way, you bastards!"

_And here the dream doth endeth..._

A cockerel crowed somewhere off in the distance (impressing the talent scout enough to hand over the Kellogg's Cornflakes contract), waking Vyvyan from his slumbers. The night's very structurally important dream already forgotten, he sat up in bed and bemoaned his poor old aching back in a very loud voice so that everyone else would be forced to wake up. That done, he went to shake the grit from his sheets outside his door before stamping downstairs to demand breakfast off of anyone who happened to be down there.


	7. We may not be the Young Ones very long

**Thank you to my reviewers, much luff to you. **

**And sorry I've been a while writing this one, I've been busy with college work.. the next chapters may take a while too. Especially with Christmas nearly here. 0**

* * *

Mike was already downstairs when Vyvyan arrived, sitting at the kitchen table and calmly reading the day's newspaper, just as he had done for the last thirty or so years. Vyvyan gave a small 'good morning' nod, trying not to notice the dark shadows that had collected like miniature unwanted storm clouds of portent doom beneath his housemate's eyes.

Before there could be a chance for awkward conversation, they were joined by the other two, Neil moaning peevishly that he was late for work. He cast around with lethargic urgency for his raincoat and florist's bag of tricks before remembering he had been fired and falling still with a dejectedly opined "Oh. Yeah."

This was followed by a few moments of uncertain silence as the night's dreams flooded back into their collective heads, making them shift uncomfortably, avoiding each other's eye contact by taking an interest in things that had previously gone unnoticed by them their whole entire life – their shoes, the ceiling - Vyv even wandered over to the teapot and examined it.

There was the rustle of a newspaper being folded up. "House meeting in the cupboard under the stairs in three and a half seconds." Mike announced, standing up with an air of decisiveness.

Rick dropped the biscuit that had been making its way to his hungry mouth as if he had been scalded… which he hadn't as the biscuit hadn't just been taken from the oven, but from a very mouldy looking biscuit tin. His eyes narrowed and darted suspiciously from the general direction of the cupboard under the stairs, down to his paunch of middle age origin, one hand flattening against it as a pregnant woman will attend to her paunch of motherhood. "I don't think…" He began, but everyone had already gone leaving him to finish with "…That's a very good idea," to an empty kitchen.

A few seconds later Rick was begrudgingly squeezing himself into the designated cupboard, holding his breath and sucking in his gut as much as was medically possible.

"You're late," Mike observed, consulting his watch even though it was almost pitch black inside the cupboard.

"Sorry, Mike."

"After what happened yesterday I had a very good think about our situation, and came to the conclusion that we're in some Dire Straits here, and I don't mean the band."

The sounds of whining amps and guitar tuning abruptly fell silent and became irked grumbles as the British rock band of 'Brothers In Arms' fame threw down their instruments and trooped out, threatening to sue their agent for lying about the Young Ones gig.

Mike carried on regardless, whilst Neil pouted. "We've wasted our youth, our lives, our studenthood… I don't mean to be the bringer of bad news, but I've got some bad news – we're old ones now, there isn't much time left, we need to have one last final fling to show the world that we haven't forgotten how to live. We need to go out with a bang."

For a second it seemed as if the cupboard had broken out into spontaneous applause, but it was only Vyvyan trying to flatten a droning fly between his palms. "I thought you said you'd put the flypaper up?" He demanded of Neil, purposefully missing his winged target and clapping his hands painfully over both of the aged hippy's ears, making them ring. "And stop doing your bell impression, it's boring!"

"Well, that's all very well and good Mike, but –"

"Shut up, virgin!" The punk roared into his good buddy Rick's ear (he seemed to have a particular vendetta against the ear that morning).

"Then we're all agreed?" Mike enquired after a moderately sized silence, filled only with the buzzing of the winged intruder and the ringing of both Neil's and Rick's ears… okay, so there was hardly a silence at all, but it sounds more dramatic, right? Good.

"How big exactly is this 'bang' going to be?" The People's Poet enquired in a somewhat sulky tone, still wary of the tender-hearted Vyv lurking in the dark beside him.

"How long is a piece of string?" Was the cryptic reply, the cupboard door opening as the miniscule house leader made his way back out into the hallway.

"About as long as you cut it?" Neil measured the ideal length of a piece of string between his hands, frowning in thought.

"That's exactly right Neil, well done."

"Oh, oh yeah, thanks Mike."

"Now come on, my plan's perfectly simple, all we need to do is get some water pistols, rob a bank, try to make a getaway in Vyv's car but crash it into a tree, so steal a bus instead and drive off into the sunset to live out the rest of our lives in the Copa Cabana."

"Guys, guys…" The hippy moaned fearfully as the other three men wandered off, talking over the plans in greater detail with the excitement of people who are excited about something. "I'm getting déjà vu…"


	8. Young ones shouldn't be afraid

The lights were low, the single illuminating bulb dangling precariously over the kitchen table, various implements sketching out a battle plan worthy of the most avid Dungeons and Dragons role-player, the four faces of the men who hovered around it thrown into darkly mysterious relief as they studied the surface with avid attention.

"Mike…" Rick enquired after a goodly few minutes, his eyes lifting to search the expressions of the others. "What exactly does all this mean?" He smiled uncertainly, the way an ape will when threatened.

"I just wanted to say -" The hippy began. Of course, since he had been thinking deeply and had something of relative sentimental importance to tell the guys he was thoroughly talked over.

"It means that if you ask another stupid question I'm going to stuff this tea cosy up your bottom!"

"Guys…"

"It's perfectly simple, Rick…"

"Guys…"

"Vyvyan! Don't you ruddy well dare! My parents left me that spoon in their will. Argh!"

"Quiet, Neil's got something to tell us. What is it, Neil?"

Neil looked around at the others uncertainly, not used to having their full attention. He cleared his throat. "Did anyone else have like, a really weird dream last night?" He asked preliminarily. Anything else he might have said was suddenly cut off as Rick, flushed with the memory of the dream of his bizarre and lonely death, snatched up the tea cosy and pulled it over Neil's face.

The face that forced the abortion issue sighed and looked profoundly off camera, his eyes clouded. "Yeah, I had one." Mike said quietly. The time had come to build bridges, not the traditional way with bricks and mortar, but with words (it was to be an abstract bridge). "It made me realise something," he continued, looking to each of the other men's faces as they listened closely, "It made me realise that we can't grow old alone. We could have broken away from each other, gone on to do great things, but without each other we're nothing, we're not a whole. We need our friendship more than money, more than fame, more than success."

An awed silence descended… then realised it had gotten the co-ordinates wrong and rapidly ascended with a terrified squawk as a certain punk was violently and copiously sick and Rick whined "_Eurgh_, Mike's gone funny" in a terrified tone whilst he pulled anxiously at a strand of hair. Neil, who had heard nothing due to the tea cosy over his head, walked into the table and fell over it, arms flailing wildly and knocking all the carefully laid out battle pieces to the floor.

Mike simply sighed.

* * *

Within a few hours, the considerably-older-than-they-once-were ones had tried to stick up a bank using only water pistols, somehow managed to procure a large amount of stolen money anyway, had smashed Vyvyan's car and SPG's coffin (hamsters don't live forever, not even ones that have forehead studs and have survived a shark-infested flood and being dropped into saucepans full of lentils and…) that had been nailed to the fender for good luck against a tree whilst trying to make a getaway, and so had hijacked a bus instead, all the while with Neil complaining of a strong sense of déjà vu.

They were currently zooming along in the bus at above speed limit speed, singing 'We're All Going on a Summer Holiday' and other hits remembered from their glory days. A general sense of well-being had pervaded amongst them, pushing out the misery and griping that had hung over them all for so long.

Rick laughed with the disbelief that something had finally gone right for him, plunging his hands into the burlap sack carefully marked with 'Loot' and bringing up fistfuls of clean, crisp banknotes. He looked up and started to say that he thought that everything was going to be alright from now on, but what came out instead was "Aargh! Look out! Cliff!"

There was indeed a large billboard proclaiming the date of Cliff Richard's funeral looming up in the path of the stolen mode of public transport and despite Mike's desperate manoeuvring of the wheel, they hurtled helplessly towards it. They crashed through the pop star's post-humus, but still charming, grin and began hurtling ironically down the side of the cliff face the billboard had hidden from view, screaming all the way. They'd wanted to go out with a bang, now it seemed that they would really get their wish, which is why people always tell you to be careful what you wish for… although of course the people who say it are usually senile and are planning to give you an oversized knitted sweater whatever you wish for anyway.

Strangely enough, the crashing impact they had all been expecting never happened. So they waited… and then they waited a little more and when still nothing happened they uncurled themselves from whatever ineffectual foetal position they had rolled into and peered cautiously out of the bus windows. They were floating high above the ground up in the air, which was really rather odd as buses are not well known for their flying skills, more their falling skills when launched off the side of a steep cliff.

"Bloody hell!" Vyv proclaimed with a grin, pressing his nose to the glass and peering at the ground, perilously far below. "We're flying!"

"I'm air sick…" The middle aged hippy groaned, crouching down and wedging himself beneath one of the seats. "Heavy…"

"You're right Neil, this bus is very heavy, why aren't we dead?" Mike pushed his orange-haired friend and one-time tyrannical bodyguard out of his way and took a turn looking out of the window. Climbing up to stand on one of the seats, he opened the top half of the window and leaned out a little way, staring first up and then down.

After a few moments he silently pulled his head in, closed the window and sat down very deliberately. The others crowded around him.

"What is it, Mike?"

The smartly dressed, sun-bespectacled man took a deep breath. "We've landed in a hot air balloon…"


	9. Once in every lifetime

Time seemed to pass more slowly up in the air and the middle-aged ones were getting really quite bored with their situation, now that at least ten minutes had passed since the bizarre revelation that a London bus was being sported through the air in the basket of a hot air balloon. This boredom had led them to take up the very occupation that had brought them to their current position in the first place – idly sniping at each other. In no mood to be called boring or smelly, but since when had he ever appreciated compliments, Neil had retired to the back end of the bus with a newspaper he had found beneath a seat and was engaged in pretending to read it.

His disinterested eye fell upon an advertisement in the popularly unpopular jobs section. Shock slowly straightened his spine, dropped his jaw and widened his eyes and it took him a few minutes to fight off the puppet mastery of the emotional spectre before he could fully concentrate on the newsprint words before him. The advert proclaimed that a woman called Anita had recently lost her bank manager husband and was now looking for someone to take his place… preferably someone with a Peace Studies degree. Amazed, Neil thought back over his dream of money and success, recalling how happy he had been and unfortunately forgetting all about his untimely demise. For that moment it seemed as if his dreams (literally) could really come true at long last.

"Guys!" He stood up and vaguely waved the crumpled newspaper around, trying to attract the attention of his fellow passengers. His outcry in fact startled Vyvyan so much, that he nearly dropped his playmate Rick from the window he had been dangling him out of. Oh, the japes they still got up to…

"Look at this. I wouldn't say it's the best thing to have ever happened to me right, because nothing good ever happens to me, but look what I've found in the paper." He shoved it under the nearest man's nose, who just happened to be Rick, only just escaped from the grasp of his friendly neighbourhood punk.

"Blimey!" The People's Poet exclaimed, snatching the paper and holding it close to face. "They're looking for someone with poetic ability to replace Gordon Brown! I could finally free the world from the tyrannical rule of government and give all the power to the kids! They would all worship me as their saviour!"

Mike's ears had pricked up at the fist syllable of 'tyrannical' and the merest glimpse of a newspaper had captivated his eyes and soon he had joined the other two in poring over the unusually interesting job's section. However, he was initially reluctant to share their enthusiasm.

"Don't these job adverts seem a little too good to be true?" He questioned. "It seems to me like some kind of cheap plot device, implanted to get our hopes up before they are cruelly, and most probably bloodily, dashed in order to create that comedy-gold of pathos within the audience." He was met with blank looks.

Rick drew him aside and whispered "Mike… have you been reading ahead again? You know we're not supposed to do that. Careful or you might get killed off." With a nod of warning he went to rejoin the action whilst yours truly was forced to hand over a contract to Mike promising that he would not be meted out any form of untimely demise, maiming or celibacy.

"Oh look," the newly contracted and far too manipulative for a fictional character rejoined rather woodenly, taking up the paper himself. "It says here that they're looking for someone to rule the world. How strange, I've always dreamt of that." Still refusing for the moment to break into a more natural stride, he shoved the jobs section at Vyvyan pronouncing "Take a look in here, you won't believe it… and will probably find your own dream job relating to the actual dream you had last night."

"Nice acting," Rick smirked, attempting to lead a round of applause before being clobbered about the head by Vyvyan. Beneath this onslaught, the anarchist had no choice but to fall in a swoon to the floor and be used by his aggressor as a seat.

"This is all in Russian!" Vyv exclaimed in disgust, Mike leaning down to discreetly turn the newspaper right way up. "Oh. Hey, listen to this – 'Are you a previous medical student with absolutely no qualifications except an unhealthy interest in gore and potions that turn people into homicidal axe-wielding maniacs? If you answered yes, then become an ambulance driver today!' Brilliant!" He beamed up at the others.

"This could be like… the break we've all been waiting for! We don't have to die alone, bitter and unsuccessful like my horoscope said I would!"

"You're absolutely right Neil. There's a time for everything and the time for living is now. All we need to do is land this hot air balloon. Rick, you're an expert in hot air, go down into the basket and work out how to land us."

Rick saluted the bus leader with a certain amount of apprehension, because although he was indeed an expert in hot air, he had no idea how to work any form of flying contraption. But his head was full of all the politically powerful poetry he would write when he touched solid ground, so that left little room for doubts about his authority in landing the bus-carrying balloon. He disappeared out of sight down a handy trap door that luckily led straight into the generously sized basket of their transport.

"Brilliant," Vyvyan sighed to himself, vague images of wailing ambulance sirens and on-the-house-curries at a friendly pub wafting pleasantly across his frontal lobe. But then, something a little more disturbing began creeping into his mind… a dark alley, a faux hippy, endless scores of admirers… "Stop Rick! We can't land!" He shouted, starting bolt upright and staring wildly at the handy trap door.

The other two men had come to the same conclusion at around the same time as their spiky-haired friend and were both diving towards the hole Rick had adventured down, their faces panic-stricken.

But it was too late… There was a sudden and ferocious explosion as the fuel in the bus's engine caught fire as a result of the anarchist-turned-hot-air-balloon-technician's inexpert fiddling with the controls, launching the burning hulk of metal into the atmosphere at a speed only spaceships usually travel at. There was a faint scream of "Looks like the Old Ones are blasting off aga-ain", fading away until there was nothing left in the clear blue, but slightly singed sky, except a tiny light winking out as the former Young Ones and their transport disappeared from this world forever.

_To be continued…_


End file.
